It's Not My Place
by Weshallc
Summary: This Turnadette AU fic starts in Episode 7 of series 7 has been updated. The changes are minimal and do not effect the story or dialogue significantly, it has just had a polish. Thank you everyone who has read and continues to read this quirky fic. So still no TB of series 2 and the Parish Hall survived the bomb blast unlike Nonnatus House. Edited 07/04/19
1. A Bit Undesirable

She was sorting out the patient notes for the morning clinic. Sister Bernadette wished Sister Julienne would assign her to the Kenilworth Row surgery a little more frequently or at least for a series of consecutive shifts. She was finding she would painstakingly manage to organize Dr Turners paperwork into something barely orderly; only to find she wouldn't be allocated back there for weeks. On her return she would have to start all over again.

The nun had wondered about asking her superior, if she could spend a month at the surgery getting Dr Turner in order. She had decided not to. It had been over 5 years since that surreal situation in the All Saints' parish hall kitchen. Neither of them had mentioned it again. Things had been awkward for a while. The demands of work, not to mention their impeccable professionalism, had eventually prevented either of them from letting one mistake spoil an excellent clinical team.

"Is Dad in his office, Sister?"

Sister Bernadette spun round to see Timothy Turner grinning at her. She looked up into his bright enquiring face. It was a young man's face now, not the lost little boy's face she used to look down into.

Dr Turner must have heard his son. He came out of his office, dressed in a navy blue suit, dark tie and sky blue shirt. Sister Bernadette preferred the smart waistcoats he used to wear. This new decade's fashion for men however, she had to admit, made him look more relaxed, less uptight.

She suddenly became aware he had noticed she was staring at him. Her face flushed and she went back to her notes. Fortunately Tim stole his father's attention.

"Dad, can I go and see the Rolling Stones tomorrow? They are on at the Regal."

Patrick's face screwed up, "Aren't they a bit undesirable?"

"I am going to watch them, not make friends with them," Tim retorted.

Sister Bernadette bit her lip, she loved Tim and his spirit unconditionally, but he really shouldn't talk to his father like that.

Patrick took his son's sarcasm well, "It's not you I am worried about, it is their crowd."

Tim sighed, Patrick cut him off before he could speak, "You are going to be late for school, we will talk about it tonight."

Patrick returned to his office. Tim didn't make for the door, he just watched his dad walk away from him. The nun knew it wasn't her place, but she saw the disappointment in the boy's face, he was still a boy at nigh on 17.

"They do have a bit of a reputation, Timothy."

"That's ridiculous!" he snapped and then blushed realizing who he had just snapped at.

She couldn't help herself, "To be fair, he is being pulled in all directions at the moment. What with the clinic, the surgery and Wadelock House."

Tim scowled, "What is Wadelock House?"

"A remand home," replied the sister, "he is covering for a colleague this week."

Timothy shook his head and sloped out the door. Patrick came out of his office and headed towards the maternity ward, he turned to the sister and said,

"Right I'm going next door, if I hear anything about Barbara, I will let you know."

The nun's voice cracked as she asked the doctor, if Barbara's husband understood the severity of the young nurse's infection. Doctor Turner was of the opinion Tom did, but was also in shock. He smiled reassuringly at the worried midwife.

The physician wanted to squeeze her hand to reassure her, but he knew that wouldn't be appropriate. All he could do was smile weakly and head through the door to the waiting ward.


	2. The Truth Is?

She didn't quite know why she went towards the alleyway between the parish hall and the neighbouring church. She just did. The antenatal clinic had finished and everyone thought Dr Turner had returned to his surgery. The other nurses had gone and the small nun had been left to lock up. She should be on her bicycle now, pedalling back to Nonnatus. Instead she moved down the alley towards him.

The doctor was looking at the floor, as if he was staring at some mystifying object on the cobbles. He lifted his head and moved his left hand towards his lips and dragged on a smoke. When he saw her, his dark olive eyes lit up. A smile altered his dark face for a moment, showing a tiny glimpse of pearly teeth.

Sister Bernadette smiled back, she couldn't help it. When his face lit up like that, like it often did when he looked her way, her face couldn't help but also betray her in equal measure.

He said nothing he just handed her the cigarette without asking. He had never asked her since that first illicit smoke outside the Carter's home. When they were alone and he knew she felt secure and she wore that smile, he would always offer her the Henley and it would always be accepted. She would take two puffs and hand it back. Depending on the situation at the time, this pattern would continue until she took her leave or the butt was spent.

The more the cigarette shrank, the more awkward it was to transfer the secret indulgence backwards and forwards between the two of them. More than one unspent Henley had ended up on the floor, as they both tried not to touch the others fingers. They were much more practiced now and a slight brush of the hand was seen as unfortunate, but not unforgivable.

On this occasion after deftly returning the cigarette to him she asked, "Is all well Doctor?"

Dr Turner told her about the young lad he had met at the reform school. Michael Sumpter was Timothy's age, but had led a very different life. He was due in court for stealing a car. He was also married with a baby on the way.

Sister Bernadette took sometime to take this all in. Trying to imagine Timothy in trouble was difficult enough, _but married! With a baby?_ No, her imagination couldn't stretch that far. She had to hide a sly smile when the realization hit her, that Dr Turner was old enough to be a grandfather.

The midwife reassured him, she would try to find Mrs Sumpter from the clinic notes. They had shared the cigarette while they had talked. He mindlessly stubbed it out, knowing it would be his last for a while. Timothy had forbidden smoking in the flat. He offered her a lift home, but she had her bike, they parted each going their separate ways.

Unusually, Dr Turner was at the surgery before her the next morning. He was pacing around reception, smoking and disrupting the sister's meticulous filing.

"Can I help you Doctor?" she enquired. What she was thinking was a little more, _for goodness sake Patrick, sit down and let me do it!_

He started to tell her whose notes he was trying to locate, but one glance at her exasperated face, stopped him in his tracks. He sat on the edge of the reception desk.

"It's Timothy, he didn't get home until after ten last night, I was worried."

"Where had he been?" she moved slightly towards him, as close as she dare.

"Orchestra and then probably just hanging around with his friends."

"Pa…Doctor, his friends are violinists and oboe players, he isn't Michael Sumpter?"

He smiled at this, how did she always know what was bothering him and how to bring him down from the ceiling.

"You are right, they were probably just having a jam session round someone's house." Patrick looked away and fidgeted on the desk and took another drag. "The truth is, I miss him when he is out. There are lots of things I can do. There is always a pile of reading, papers to write. I could even try some ironing," he admitted.

The nun shook her head vigorously, "I would leave that to Mrs Penny."

He laughed at that. "It just makes me realize in two years from now he could be at medical school and then…I really will be on my own."

Without thinking she took the Henley from his hand, without him offering it. Patrick's eyes widened, she had never done that before. He wouldn't have dreamed of even offering her a puff. Not in the surgery only minutes before opening, with the ward next door staffed with Nonnatuns.

She could hardly believe she had done it herself. The young woman had only known, she had to quickly do something to stop herself from responding to him. She had needed to keep her lips and hands busy.

The stolen drag had bought her enough time to hold herself together. Sister Bernadette was soon ushering him off her desk and chasing him back to his office, as she prepared morning surgery.


	3. Just The Way I Like Them

Sister Bernadette was quite relieved she was back on rounds the next day, but she couldn't help thinking back to her conversation with Dr Turner. She had failed to find Mrs Sumpter and felt, somewhat needlessly, that she had let the GP down.

Her young patient Alison Wetherley would probably be around the same age as the elusive Mrs Sumpter. Instead of a delinquent husband, Alison had a domineering mother. Eventually the sister got her patient away from her overbearing parent. She tried to talk to the shy teenager, without Mrs Wetherley's protective dominance, in her bedroom.

The nun tried to use this brief reprieve to win Alison's trust. The expectant mum seemed to grow in confidence away from her keeper. So much so, that she corrected her midwife when she referred to her as Miss Wetherley. Apparently, that was her mother's idea. Alison was in fact, in the eyes of the law, Mrs Sumpter. Sister Bernadette knew she didn't have much time, she didn't hesitate in telling her new charge about Dr Turner's relationship with Michael. She added that her husband couldn't want for a better advocate.

The Wetherleys had been the sister's last call. She should have been on her way back to Nonnatus, but she was heading towards Kenilworth Row. By the time she reached the surgery it was closed. She checked into the maternity home, but things were quiet. The doctor had gone home.

She could have gone straight to the convent and telephoned the GP to tell him she had found Alison Sumpter. If she was honest with herself, the news could have waited until tomorrow. She had to pass the door of his flat as she turned the corner to head for Nonnatus. She stopped.

She tentatively knocked on the imposing black painted door. She saw a light appear behind the patterned glass and heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. The nun almost turned on her heels and fled, but was too late, Patrick opened the door and exclaimed in disbelief,

"Sister Bernadette?"

He had taken off his jacket, removed his tie and opened the collar of his shirt. The nun started to talk very quickly,

"I..I am sorry to bother you, Doctor. It's just I have located Mrs Sumpter."

Patrick's face which had already lit up at the sight of Sister Bernadette on his doorstep, lightened yet again.

"Come in, come in Sister, please!"

Before she could formulate a refusal, she was inside the Turner flat. In their 15 year association, she had only been in his home a handful of times. When Timothy's mother had been ill and following her funeral. There had also been a few occasions she had offered to look after the child, before Patrick had got his domestic affairs in order as a single parent.

It didn't appear to have altered significantly since she had last visited. In certain ways it still looked as if Mrs Turner still lived there. Today she perceived something slightly different, there was definitely a more masculine feel to the place. There was a lack of a lady's coat on the pegs or a handbag or sewing box next to a chair. She chastised herself, she shared a house with 7 women and had done so for a very long time, of course she would notice the difference, there wasn't any irregularity in that.

It was just that it smelt different, the usual odour of Henley's was not as strong as she remembered and mainly lingered around Patrick, along with whatever that soap was, both he and Timothy always used. The dominant fragrance was now that of furniture polish and bleach. Mrs Penny's preferences she surmised, she wondered if Patrick even noticed.

It suddenly hit her, the missing scent was floral, not furniture polish floral, but authentic fresh flowers. Every time she had been here before, there had been flowers, even after Mrs Turner had died. She had presumed Patrick had bought them to remember her or to take to her grave, but there weren't any flowers today.

The Turner's home had once been an assault on the senses, a concoction of seasonal blooms and cigarette smoke. Mrs Turner had smoked the more colourful version of Trixie's brand. The only floral smell now came from a polish tin and the hint of smoke traced Dr Turner's movements, as effectively as sonar.

He was banging about in the kitchen, filling the kettle, lighting the gas. She joined him,

"Please Dr. Turner, there is no need for that. I am expected at Nonnatus."

He wasn't listening, she smiled as he failed to find a tea-towel and wiped a china cup dry with his handkerchief. He was rummaging in the cupboards again. She had decided to stop protesting, he seemed determined to have her take tea with him.

"There should be some biscuits in here?" A missile flew out of the cupboard and landed at the midwife's feet, she bent down and picked up the packet with its shattered contents.

"My favourites," She smiled as she gently handed him the packet of pink wafers.

He placed the largest splintered piece he could find on her saucer and a smaller fragment.

"Just the way I like them," she couldn't help herself and let out an uncontrollable giggle. He gave her a sidewards glance and his shoulders relaxed as he chuckled back.

Over tea, she told him about the sweet Alison Sumpter and the sour Mrs Wetherley.

"I am sure Alison is still very much in love with Michael," she reassured him and cursed herself inwardly when she coloured doing so. She knew he noticed, but he gallantly covered her blushes by talking about Michael.

Sister Bernadette admitted she wouldn't be opposed to acting as a go-between for the two estranged lovers. She also tried to explain to Dr Turner, that although Alison was in love with Michael, her mother definitely was not and they would have to proceed with care.

They were interrupted by Timothy appearing at the door. His surprise and obvious delight at seeing their guest was evident. His good humour was cut short when his father asked him rather abruptly, why he was late?

"I've been making friends with the Rolling Stones!" he retorted. His father stiffened and was ready to admonish his son. Sister Bernadette was disappointed at the change in the ambience and swiftly intercepted Patrick's words.

"Timothy, could I please trouble you in the acquiring of Mr Richard's autograph? I have always had a leaning towards a fine guitarist."

Tim looked completely confused, blankly stared at her, then abruptly burst out laughing. Patrick's stare lasted a little bit longer than his son's. She stared back unflinchingly, he got the message and sighed, cracked a smile and told his son to go and get changed out of his uniform. Tim could still be heard laughing as he closed his bedroom door.

Patrick bent forward towards the coffee table to refill their cups from the teapot. Her words stopped him.

"Why is it so easy for you to make allowances for Michael, but not for Timothy?"

Patrick's arm shook slightly, the teapot appeared to have become incredibly heavy and he set it down with a thud. He entwined his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. He didn't look at her, he couldn't meet her gaze. Patrick began slowly,

"Michael's dad has already failed to be a positive influence on him. I don't think I can do much more damage than has already been done." Patrick's thumbs wrestled against each other as his fingers remained locked together. "I never want to see that disappointed look in Tim's eyes when someone mentions his father. The look that I saw in Michael's eyes today."

"And you think this is the right way to go about things?" her voice was very soft almost a whisper. His reply was quicker and sharper that he intended.

"Probably not, but I have no-one to ask, no-one to discuss it with, unless...you come to tea more often?" He was looking at her now.

She had seen that look earlier that same day in the face of Alison Sumpter. When she had maybe irresponsibly, but earnestly offered the expectant mum a glimmer of hope for the future. Something the girl couldn't even conceive of, before the sisters visit.

"Is that the time, I will be late for the dining room. Thank you so much for the tea and the wafer. I will see myself out. You've been more than kind, Doctor."

And she was gone. The flat returned once again to feeling more masculine.


	4. What If It Was?

"Morning Doctor," She chirped as he walked into the surgery, her tone changed when she saw what he was carrying. "Is that Timothy's suit? Does it need dry cleaning?"

"No, it's for Michael, he will need it for court," Patrick replied not meeting her eyes.

"Doctor, I know it's not my place, but..." Sister Bernadette was interrupted.

"What if it was?" Patrick was facing her, but his eyes seemed to dart all over the room. He looked so like Timothy at that moment; lost, hopeful and confused. She was going to tell him she didn't know what he meant. But she did know.

"If it was," she started and then paused, she knew she had to take care in answering. "If it was my place, Doctor. I would council a firm but more gentle hand with young Timothy. You were once 16, remember how that felt, how you wanted to be treat. But also the guidance you may have never received or even chose to ignore, but wish you hadn't."

He took a long look at her and simply nodded, turned and walked into his office. Sister Bernadette held her stomach with both hands and fell into the chair beside her.

Sister Bernadette was covering the delivery suite that afternoon. It was quiet and her mind was on other things. On someone she had never met. Michael Sumpter would be facing the magistrate about now, in Timothy's suit with Patrick by his side. She prayed the Judge would be lenient. She had heard Dr Turner act as a character witness before. He wasn't phased by authority. He had helped her prepare, when she had to give testimony, during the investigation of the explosion at the docks. It had given her courage. She hoped Michael would leave a free man, for Alison's sake, but also for Patrick's.

Her thoughts were interrupted by someone shouting her name, not someone, Dr Turner. He had Alison with him, obviously in labour. The young wife had turned up at the court and now her contractions were 4 minutes apart. Sister Bernadette led the soon to be mother into the delivery room.

Dr Turner watched as the cool midwife collected herself and professionally took over, calmly reassuring Mrs Sumpter. He thought of the ways in which she reassured him too. He knew his presence was not necessary. Alison was young, it would be better to leave her with the sister. She would let him know if she needed him, but not in the way he really wanted.

By the time Patrick popped his head around the delivery suite door, Alison's baby's head was born. He watched as Sister Bernadette managed to both encourage and calm her patient, while deftly bringing her child into the world. It was something he had seen her do so many times before, but he still stood there transfixed.

Patrick was ready to leave, he was itching to see how Michael's trial had concluded and inform him he was a father to a beautiful baby boy. All he could talk about was how would the teenager cope with a sentence. How would his wife cope with her son's overbearing grandmother and her continuous defamation of his father's character. Sister Bernadette stopped him before he left, reminding him to return Timothy's suit. Patrick nodded absent mindedly.

"Don't just sneak it back into his wardrobe," she had said it before she realized. "If you don't mind me saying Doctor, I know it's not my place." That phrase again, she thought, she hurried on before he interrupted her and made things awkward between them, as he had earlier.

"I think you should use this opportunity to explain to Timothy, why parents worry. Tell him about the Sumpters and apologise for taking his belongings without asking. He just wants your trust and respect, as much as you want his."

"And yours?"

Sister Bernadette rubbed her hands together, holding them close to her. "You know you have always had that and always will."

She lost no time in turning away from him returning to her patient. He watched her head back to the ward, before taking his own leave.

The conversation with Timothy hadn't been as difficult as he had anticipated. He hadn't been too pleased to hear the Stones were revisiting at the end of the month. He knew he had to let Tim go this time and try and build some of that trust, the sister had been talking about.

He wanted to tell her, that he had took her advice and it had all gone quite well, but the distress in her voice stopped him. He shuffled the telephone receiver to his other ear and leant against the hall table, giving her time to speak. Nurse Hereward's condition had deteriorated and it was now only a matter of time. The medical staff were only keeping her comfortable. Phyllis and Tom had been called to her bedside.

Patrick knew he wouldn't be needed at St. Cuthbert's. He looked in on his sleeping son. He had promised his mother he would keep him safe, but was he in keeping that promise starting to smother him. Marianne would never have wanted that, she had been such a free spirit herself. He grabbed his car keys and headed for Nonnatus House.

Everyone was assembled in the great hall. Sister Monica Joan was seated, Sister Julienne comforting her. Nurse Dyer stood with her colleague, young Lucille Anderson. The new midwife had only known Barbara a few months but was visibly upset and was obviously praying. Fred and his wife Violet were in a huddle with Sister Winifred.

She stood alone a little way from the rest. He noticed she was wringing her hands together. The way she did on the rare occasions when she didn't feel in control, when events dared to overtake her. He knew she was praying, silently.

Patrick quietly entered the hall, gently closing the large oak door behind him. He wasn't greeted with the usual pleasantries he was used to on arriving at the convent. His entrance attracted a few glances and some expressions of relief, probably because he wasn't Tom or Phyllis.

She didn't move or look at him, her back was turned on him, as it was on the hopeful and those already grieving. He slowly moved across the highly polished wooden floor until he was beside her. She still didn't look at him. He gently placed his arm around her and lightly touched her shoulder. She seemed to stiffen slightly, unaccustomed as she was to male contact.

As quickly as she had frozen, she appeared to relax just as rapidly. She knew he meant her no harm, that he wanted nothing from her or even expected a response. He only wanted to comfort her and at that moment that was exactly what she needed. The slight touch of his hand, the barely perceptible reassuring rub of his thumb, seemed to be the only thing that was keeping her upright. She still didn't look at him, he didn't take his eyes off her.

The door eventually opened and Phyllis and Tom entered. No one asked the question, there was no need. The only reason the pair would have returned to Nonnatus was because Barbara would now never be coming home.

Sister Bernadette moved swiftly towards the bereaved, followed by the whole ensemble, all with the same intention to comfort Tom and Phyllis and each other. Tom was engulfed in a scrum of compassion. Patrick felt Phyllis slip from his grasp, he noticed from the corner of his eye, she made her way to the door that she had just entered through. He let her go, remembering how much he craved for a moment alone in the hours after Marianne died. He had been engulfed in a similar embrace at the old Nonnatus House. He had to put aside his own grief to support Timothy and take care of the boy's grandmother. Was that really almost seven years ago, was that possible, he wondered.

As the tangle of combined grief slowly came apart, he took one last chance to provide some physical comfort, to the one he wanted to never let go of, slowly stroking her back. She released her arm from around him and his whole body shivered involuntarily. As she pulled away, she allowed herself a glance towards her comforter. Her eyes said thank you.

She walked towards Sister Julienne, who put her arms around her younger sister and embraced her. Dr Turner made for the door, he would have liked to have done the same, but it wasn't his place.


	5. I Don't Need A Doctor

Together at the front of the parish hall, Val and Lucille held the giant cake and potential fire risk. Sister Monica Joan walked down the aisle, on either side stood two walls of well wishers, the hall rang with the sound of applauding nuns, nurses and grateful parishioners. Sisters Julienne and Winifred helped Sister Bernadette lead the older nun towards her fabulous birthday cake. Chummy brought Freddie to the front and lifted the infant up to help the birthday girl blow out the candles. He himself had just celebrated his fifth birthday and couldn't wait until he was the nun's age, to be the glad recipient of such a big cake.

Everyone was finally seated with the nuns at the front, the guest of honour between Sister Winifred and Sister Julienne. Sister Bernadette took her place on the end. The audience _oohed_ and _ahhed_ in all the right places, as the biographical film Tim and Mr Hodgkiss had made of Sister Monica Joan's life flickered on the screen.

There were exquisite childhood photographs followed by poignant footage of the nun about to take her vows. Sister Bernadette noticed that the young Sister Monica Joan, seemed to hang back slightly from the other brides of Christ. The younger nun started to feel very warm, her habit felt tight and she pulled at it slightly.

She could hear Dr Turner sat behind her laughing and sharing banter with Lucille.

Suddenly the picture dazzled her vision, the image before her was now in colour. It was the July fete outside the parish hall. Sister Monica Joan was judging the bonnie baby contest. It was 1958. Sister Bernadette wasn't in those photos, because she hadn't been there at the time of the prize giving. She had been in the parish hall kitchen, trying to heal a hurt. She rubbed her sweaty hot palms together, as if trying to remove something stubborn from them.

It was very warm, she pulled again at the habit trying to breathe in more air. The next slide was of the Noakes' wedding. She overheard Chummy, tell a fidgety Freddie, to look at mammy and daddy on the big screen. She really felt uncomfortable, she tugged again at her habit. She saw herself in the pictures throwing confetti at her friend. Tears started falling silently from the eyes that were transfixed on the screen. The next image was another birthday party a delighted couple and a small boy, more _ahhs. S_ he noticed Timothy and his father exchange a fragile smile.

Another wedding, Fred squeezed Violet's knee in the semi-darkness. Abruptly the film tripped and the colour came back, but brighter this time. It was a message from the continent, Trixie, a vivacious Trixie looking healthy and happy. She was bronzed and her hair had lightened in the sun, it hung down below her shoulders. She wore a halter neck top and looked so alive and free. She blew the birthday girl a kiss from Italy and the sister returned the gesture.

Sister Bernadette couldn't find any similarities between herself and her old friend on the screen. Trixie was only a few years younger than the nun, but suddenly she felt old, very old. She turned and looked at her sister. Her mind started racing with unwanted thoughts. Would she in fifty years time be sat where Sister Monica Joan was? Watching a movie play out of her life. Would it be the same movie? Would it be all too familiar?

Her older sisters would no longer be here and who knew if Sister Winifred would still be in Poplar? Would everyone come up to her and thank her for her long years of service? She turned back to the screen, another wedding. The audience hushed.

The scene switched to Epping Forest and that summer's three legged race. Timothy had talked her into partnering him, he had said it was for old times sake. Dr Turner had watched from the side, silently this time. She had begged Timothy to ask his father; saying it was such a shame he had missed out five years ago. Timothy had been adamant. When dear Barbara and Tom eventually won, he blamed the fact that they were no longer of similar height on their failure, with that familiar cheeky grin.

Sister Bernadette felt terrible, the _oohs_ had given away to an uncomfortable silence, as people remembered their lost friend. Sister Bernadette was crying, but not for her recently departed colleague, but for herself. She quietly got to her feet and fled the temporary picture house. Sister Julienne beside her barely noticed her departure, too preoccupied supporting the guest of honour. Someone did notice, someone had been watching her discomfort and pain instead of the brilliant projections in front of him.

He knew where to find her. He made his way along the All Saints' alley. For a split second he wasn't sure it was her. He soon became aware that his confusion had been caused by a change in her appearance. Her head was bare and a great deal of her hair had fallen from its knot. At first he wondered if something incomprehensible had happened to her, had she ran into someone untrustworthy in the dark alley?

She stood with her back against the wall of the parish hall, she was digging her short nails into the grout between the bricks behind her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Sister, has something happened?" Patrick held his breath as he waited for the answer. Her bright eyes turned towards him. There was a shrug of the shoulders and she let out a deep husky chuckle, very unlike the infectious giggle that sometimes refused the nun's vain efforts to be kept in.

"No, nothing has happened...nothing at all." Her voice was dull and barely audible.

"Are you unwell, Sister?" Dr Turner whispered back.

The doctor was near enough now to see her distress, he instinctively put his hand on her forehead. She raised her right hand and knocked it away with more force than was necessary.

"I am not sick, I don't need a doctor, Patrick!" The words were almost spat at him, but he felt a shiver overtake his whole body when she said his name.

Since Marianne had died he hardly heard it, he didn't see his family and friends regularly. Granny Parker mainly addressed him as dad or your father, as Timothy was usually in attendance.

She took off her glasses to wipe her eyes and seemed at a loss as to what to do with them. He gently took them from her and folded them into his jacket top pocket. It was then a glint of light in that gloomy outdoor corridor caught his eye. Sister Bernadette's wimple was lying on the ground. He didn't comment or try to rescue it.

"If you don't mind me saying, Sister, you don't seem yourself."

That dry dark cackle again. She started to respond, but was interrupted by a concerned and instantly recognisable voice.

"Is everything alright Dad, you are not smoking, I hope," Tim froze when he saw Sister Bernadette.

"Go back in Tim, the sister just needed some fresh air."

Tim didn't move he couldn't quite make out the meaning of the scene in front of him. Patrick glared at Tim, pleading with his eyes for him to leave. It was the nun who spoke,

"I am fine Timothy. Could you be so kind as to give your father and I just a minute." Tim looked at his dad for reassurance, Patrick nodded.

"If you're certain, Sister?"

"Yes dearest, I couldn't be more certain. I just need to answer your father's enquiry."

Patrick looked as confused as his son, but nodded again at his boy and even managed a slight smile of reassurance.

Timothy went back into the parish hall, Sister Julienne stopped him.

"Have you seen your father or Sister Bernadette?" she enquired

Timothy had no idea what was actually going on in the alleyway, but he had an inkling it definitely wasn't a good idea to tell the sister the little he did know. He also didn't much like the thought of lying to a nun, especially one as discerning as Sister Julienne. He told her that someone was in need of attention and his father and the missing nun had gone outside. The sister nodded telling him, whoever it was, would therefore be in good hands and it was probably due to too much excitement, which often happened on these occasions. Tim nodded and headed back towards Mr Hodgkiss and his projector.

Back in the wynd. Sister Bernadette was wiping her tears on her habit sleeve. Dr Turner had offered his handkerchief, but for the second time in the last few minutes she had briskly brushed his hand away.

"Sister Bernadette is there anything you need? Anything or anyone I can fetch for you? I will get you anything you ask?"

"Shelagh!"

"Who, sorry? Sheila, I am not sure I know her." She turned and looked at him like he was an annoying first year medical student.

Following a rather exaggerated sigh, "Shelagh, I am Shelagh, it's my name."

It took Patrick a few seconds to understand what she was saying and what her meaning was.

"Sheila! That's lovely,"

"SheeeeLah!" came back at him.

Patrick felt like he did on his first day at the Royal Liverpool as a house officer, completely lost and out of his depth. He had no idea how he had said it wrong. He did know however know, he liked the way she said it and the way she had said his name earlier.

She suddenly looked directly into his eyes and held his gaze. Patrick was unnerved at first, her eyes were sparkling all different hues of blue, due to the spent tears. Her glasses were still in his pocket. Most of her hair that had come undone, he guessed due to the vicious way, she must have torn off the discarded wimple. It still lay abandoned on the cobbles. A strawberry blonde lock was lying almost covering a glistening eye. It took all his strength of will not to reach out and secure the fluttering feather of hair behind her ear.

"Yes!" She said

Patrick was startled, had she read his mind? Urgently he wanted a cigarette, anything to calm his nerves, of course he should have thought of that.

"Do you want a cigarette, Sis...Shieeelaa." She genuinely smiled for the first time and the chuckle resurfaced, but less disparaging this time. He felt ridiculous.

"No...I mean yes! I would.. but that's not what I meant."

Patrick had his hand in his left hand trouser pocket retrieving his lighter and smokes he had secreted there earlier, hidden by his jacket, in a pathetic attempt to deceive his son. She stilled his hand as he started to remove the covert contents.

"Yes! I mean yes is the answer to whatever you want to ask me."

Patrick was now not only lost, but completely on the wrong bus.

"The answer is yes, Patrick."

He loved the way she said his name, he couldn't care less if she had said his name wrong, following her correction of him. If that was the case, it had obviously been everyone else saying it wrong his whole life, not her.

He did however think it might be a good time to remove her hand from his trouser pocket. He left the illicit stash where it was and held onto her icy cold hand.

"Shelagh, I don't understand?"

Her smile left and she looked down at the white fabric lying limp on the ground. Patrick panicked, he sensed he was losing her. He hadn't even realized he had her, until he felt her start to slip through his fingers. How could this be happening again? his mind screamed.

She was turning away from him now, starting to pull her hand away from his. Any minute now she would be fixing her hair and replacing the offending wimple.

He held her hand tightly so she couldn't remove it. He gently brought it to his lips as he had done before, when they once stood on the other side of this same wall. On that summer's day her hand had felt warm from the tepid water and the flush of exertion. This time it was cold from the autumnal night air, but it opened up to him just the same.

She turned instinctively, but this time it was towards him. He was now aware of the question, he wanted to ask.

"Would you like me to take you home now, Shelagh?"

Her face darkened again, the last place she wanted to be at that moment was Nonnatus House.

"I asked Mrs Penny to get in some rather superior biscuits, just in case you decided to take tea with me again."

The smile returned and it lit up her lovely face, he suddenly realized he was also smiling, his shoulders relaxed and he loosened the grip on her hand, which was now next to his heart. She didn't remove it.

"Patrick," he honestly, was never going to get tired of hearing her say it. She continued, "yes, I would very much like to go home now."

He somehow managed to retrieve her spectacles from his jacket pocket, deftly replace them back where they had more purpose, without once letting go of her hand. He was still not completely certain if he let go of it, he would ever have the privilege of holding it again.

She blinked a little as her focus improved and a broad smile lit up the delicate tear stained face, framed by a tangle of honey blonde hair. It was as if on having her gaze sharpened, she was relieved to see it was actually him, that was holding on so possessively to her left hand. She breathed,

"Patrick, after we finish our tea, we will come up with a plan. I think that would be a very good place, for us to make a start."


End file.
